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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28536435">Putain - what an old fool</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DissidiumDianthus/pseuds/DissidiumDianthus'>DissidiumDianthus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Complicated Relationships, Dark Past, Daydreaming, Demisexuality, F/M, Grumpy Old Men, Guilt, Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited Crush</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:15:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,415</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28536435</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DissidiumDianthus/pseuds/DissidiumDianthus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Some time has passed since he's been spared by the Hero of Ferelden and moved to Montsimmard, followed by the woman who Joined the order with him in hopes to avenge her late lover - the one he's killed in the attempt of saving his country.<br/>Yet Loghain finds himself surprised when he realised he doesn't quite dislike the woman as he had anticipated and that, in fact, her hatred does nothing to the growing interest he's harbouring inside his old heart - both shameful and very human.<br/>How does a deposed Fereldan general cope with the idea of falling for an elven Orlesian mage, after despising them for so long?<br/>--<br/>Original Warden Character - non-Hof</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Loghain Mac Tir/Female Surana, Loghain Mac Tir/Female Warden, Loghain Mac Tir/Warden</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Putain - what an old fool</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I am pleased to open the new year with a fresh piece of writing!<br/>I have fallen deep and thoroughly into the Fereldan dilfs' hell and figured I might as well embrace it and have fun in the meantime.</p><p>The character depicted here is an OC of mine, part of my personal canon verse developed with my partner.<br/>Feel free, however, to simply enjoy this product for what it is: an old man having a hard time with what his mind likes to think of when left wandering!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are times when he finds it hard to focus on the task at hand, mind blown to the past and memories, glimpses of the life he’s had, mostly. More rarely, he indulges in fantasies, the quill he’s writing with laying still, dripping placidly some ink into the document as his eyes stare into the distance, caught in the production of his own brain.<br/>
Desire is unfamiliar to him. That’s how he’d describe it, the word he’d pick, if he had to. He’s not a stranger to it, has felt it crawling under the skin, but it has been a long time, and the passing of it has washed so much of what he remembers.<br/>
He doesn't recognize the heath in his chest when it first comes, rather lost in thought. She’s been in this room just a moment before, air still smelling like her. She’s Orlesian, he reminds himself with irritation, as if the notion would be enough to deter his mind – she wears cologne like some fancy noblewoman, a craftily put-together mixture that smells like a flower field basking in the sun. It comes from afar, however, because she never bends on the desk to take a better look at the maps, nor does she put it on with frequency, he assumes.<br/>
He remembers vividly the curve of her neck as she’s turned to face the window. She has tattoos along her throat, red wisps of what seem petals. He doubts they have a meaning – although an elf, she’s not a dalish – besides decoration, but he finds himself wondering what it’d be like to explore them, thumbs gently pressing against the skin, brushing slow, sensing her breath reducing and then halting in slight tension before the gulp.<br/>
It is a remote possibility, if not downright unattainable. She’s not the kind of woman who enjoys the touch of others, least of all his. The wound of his actions, although healing, still lingers. He can see her stiffening when he comes closer. He stops, when he can, not to force her. His first problem is his duty and what he has to communicate to abide by it. This type of brooding is unknown to him, something new he’s never faced before.<br/>
On more daring days such as this one, he wonders what her skin feels like. It appears soft despite the scars that ruin it, attesting her as a warrior. Only a daring or an incapable mage would end up with those. He knows the latter’s not the case, so he has to assume it’s the first.<br/>
He can see what Duncan has seen in her very clearly, can imagine even more so when she walks around the outpost, hips slightly undulating at the motion, pronounced by the crease of her waist and the little shoulders. She’s not big by any means, average for one of her race, but compared to him she looks fragile and flexuous. He’s wondered, guiltily, how she’d feel against him. In a hug, in his embrace, in the morning. He’s as embarassed by the thoughts as if he’d dared to say them out loud in front of a crowd, despite them living only in his head.<br/>
He also asks himself if he’d grow to at least tolerate her dreaded language, was she to speak to him in that to murmur secrets and feelings they shouldn’t have. Perhaps pleas, too, would help the cause, the kind of sweet request made from a woman that a man cannot ignore, that ought to satisfy, needs to, for he’d be at her mercy if she was to ask him that.<br/>
But it’s her entrance in the room that startles him and brings him back to the real world. He jumps on his chair and she stops dead on the door, handle still grasped between her fingers, a slight tilt of the head as she narrows her eyes, signalling confusion and a nuance of irritation.<br/>
He is a fool. And an old pervert. If he’s learned the first, never had he thought he’d become the latter.<br/>
«...I forgot a tome I had left here and a few documents.»<br/>
«Yes, naturally.» - it seems he’s giving her permission, and although it’s clear she dislikes the implication, she holds her tongue and says nothing, rushing to search for what she’s missing.<br/>
By the Maker, he is full of shame, but he cannot ignore how beautiful she is. Is this what punishment really looks like? To feel this way for an elf, for a mage, for an Orlesian? Surely the joke is inescapable. Maric would laugh his ass off, knowing what trap he’s fallen into. He can’t believe it himself, not after he’s scolded him for Fiona.<br/>
«Loghain.» - her voice cuts him off once more. It’s sharp as her sword’s edge, hard as she’d like to hit him, that’s very much clear - «You keep staring at me. If you having something to say, do so quickly, lest I lose my temper and do something I’ll regret.»<br/>
So she’s noticed. He thought himself subtle but evidently, the game of admiration and studious contemplation isn’t part of his abilities. Hence why he sighs, closing his eyes. Cursing himself a thousand times before speaking again.<br/>
«...I think you’re a strong woman. Haven’t met many of your caliber.»<br/>
«That is because you give them no chance, just like many men, especially of your race.» - she interrupts, stern and dry, lips thinning when she realises she’s acting foolishly. So she lets him finish, fists clenching near her.<br/>
«...I admire your determination. That is all.»<br/>
And it is not a lie. He wouldn’t look at a woman simply for her body – plenty of those can be seen with relative ease. Denerim, for one, had a very accessible brothel, was he interested in visiting one. His position, too, would have granted him as many lovers as he could have liked. Yet he’s never been that sort of man. The mind had to be captured with his limbs, and that was the unfortunate turn the events were taking.<br/>
«See that your admiring, then, keeps your eyes in place. Wouldn’t want to lose such a beautiful pair.»<br/>
And with that, she storms off. She’s offended, and that is clear. Damnation, he should have said something different – and yet again, it’s not his fault if she acts like this!<br/>
...Which isn’t true. She’s angry for a very specific reason, one he cannot argue with. That makes his elucubrations even more guilty, dirtier. He should be ashamed of himself, of the little respect he’s showing her despite his words.</p><p>His eyes lower on the document he’s writing, then, finding the page splattered with dripped ink, making half of the paper illegible.<br/>
He sighs, puts the instrument down, and brings both of his hands to his face. The calloused surface of them reminds him of the time he’s spent on the battlefield, and he hopes in a bit of grounding. Instead, today, all thoughts run back to her. He knows what her palm feels like – she has smacked him hard across the face at the first ill-timed comment he’s made about the lost wardens at Ostagar. He hasn’t fought it because he is the one at fault, because she was trembling in anger when he’d dared mention her past lover with them and because, despite the pain, it’s been the only thing he has to construct something, to phantom her caress.<br/>
Perhaps it’s the age, he tries telling himself as he inhales sharply, wraps the paper with nervousness and throws it across the room before taking a new sheet to write on. He’s getting old, effectively losing his mind, becoming one of the old bastards he thought ridiculous and overbearingly idiotic.<br/>
But maybe it’s worse, and he’s falling once more – destiny eternally bemused by the impossibility of the situation, toying with him to teach him a lesson after he's tried so many times to bend it to his will.<br/>
Was it the case, then, he has not much he can do. He can only hope he’ll be able to put on a good show for his puppeteer, to entertain it enough to be set free. Because it’s intolerable to think of her this much, but so is not being able to admit what force is corroding his heart against his will, and doing so to her.<br/>
Shit. No, better cursing in the language of the country they were currently in, out of spite, out of anger and disappointment towards himself.<br/>
<i>Putain.</i></p>
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